Last Request
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When a tall, dark, mysterious man shows up at the funeral of sweet little old Beatrice Davies, speculation abounds about the elderly woman's possible paramour. Aziraphale x Crowley.


_**Notes:**_

_**Warning for mention of a mildly suggestive moment.**_

"Kimberly? Darling?"

"Yes?" The grieving woman sniffs. She blots cry-puffy eyes with a handkerchief, then turns towards the voice. When she sees the woman coming up behind her, her eyes light up for the first time all day. "Oh, Lydia!"

"Kimberly! I am so so sorry for your loss!"

"Thank you." Kimberly takes her friend's hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. "And thank you so much for coming out here on such a dreadful day. I know you have your hands full, what with your grandchildren visiting."

Lydia smiles. "I wouldn't miss it. Your aunt Beatrice was such a lovely woman. So kind and caring …"

"And lonely." Kimberly sighs, wiping a warm tear from her cold cheek. "No husband. No children. Such a shame. She had so much love to give, too."

"Well, she may not have had kids of her own, but she had us lot." Lydia bumps Kimberly's shoulder playfully with hers. "Always dropping in unannounced, raiding her pie cupboards and tearing through her garden."

"Probably why she didn't have children after all." Kimberly chuckles but sadly. "I bet we soured her on the idea."

"Kimber! Lydie!"

The women glance up as a third friend rushes over, stepping into their circle and grasping their arms.

"Bianca! Oh, darling!" Kimberly greets her with a kiss on the cheek. "It's been a dog's age! Thank you so much for coming!"

"Absolutely! I loved your aunt Beatrice! Admired her a great deal."

"That's so kind of you to say. She would have loved to hear it."

Bianca sighs, a specter of guilt clouding her grey-green eyes. "I wish I had told her when she was alive."

"I know what you mean." Kimberly looks at their joined arms, then over at her aunt's casket waiting for the mourners to leave so it can be lowered into the ground. "There are so many things I waited too long to say. And now, I won't ever get the …" She stops, her eyes unfocused as she stares into the distance, through the fine mist falling on the lush green grass, past the grey head stones, around the mourners huddled in groups, paying their respects. Lydia and Bianca watch their friend patiently, waiting for her to finish her sentiment, but when the pause goes on too long, they begin to get concerned.

"Kimber?" Bianca says. "Dearest? Are you alright?"

Kimberly's eyes narrow, peering hard, peculiar thoughts jumbling about her head. A beat longer and she shakes herself, returning back to the conversation.

"Yes," she says, oddly winded, breathless in a beguiled sort of way. "I'm fine. I … who is that?"

Lydia and Bianca's heads pop up, turning in the direction Kimberly had been staring. They see the man right away. Amid a sea of black suits and dresses, bowed heads and umbrellas, it's not hard to tell whom she's referring to. Both women are privately surprised they hadn't noticed him before – tall and slim in stature; wearing an expensive suit and shoes being sacrificed to the rain; a black Panama hat shielding his somber face; fire red hair; and sunglasses too stylish for such an occasion, their obsidian lenses hiding his eyes so completely nothing can be seen of their color. He stands beyond the ring of family and friends, lovingly caressing a long-stemmed white rose, the petals so pure in color it glows in his gloved hands.

"Do you recognize him?" Bianca asks, suddenly conscious of her slumped shoulders. She pulls them back, rectifying her posture.

"Not a hair," Kimberly replies, briefly considering pulling her compact out of her purse and adding a hint of color to her cheeks. "I've never seen that man before in my life!"

"Are you certain?" Lydia adjusts her pillbox hat, lifts the veil covering her face.

"Was he a friend of Bea's?"

"If he knew my aunt, she didn't mention him. And _I_ definitely didn't invite him."

"He's quite the dish, isn't he?"

"Bianca!"

"Well, he is!"

Kimberly stares at her friend, blue eyes scolding, but the grin she's fighting manages to break through. "All right! He is!"

"Shh! Don't look now, girls! He's coming this way!"

But they don't avert their eyes. They can't stop staring. He has a commanding presence; walks with a strange, sinewy gait; pulls the attention of everyone near and far. The party falls silent, parting as the man walks through. He has an unusual effect on them. The men suck in their stomachs. The women lengthen their necks. But he doesn't seem to notice them, walking straight to the mahogany casket bathed in flowers without stopping to address anyone or offer his condolences.

He stops at the casket, breathes in poignantly. He reaches out and rests a hand on the wood. He remains quiet for a long time, head bowed as if in prayer. Then his chest shudders.

"Oh, Beatrice," he whispers in a broken voice. "My beloved Bea. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. May the road rise up to meet you, and Heaven open its gates to embrace you. I know they will but … they don't deserve you."

Slowly, he brings the rose to his lips. He kisses the bud gently, his lips lingering on it, making a few of the more enchanted mourners swallow hard, then lays it atop the other flowers on the casket. He tarries a moment longer, undeterred by scrutinizing eyes, then straightens, turns, and walks away.

The family watches as he leaves the way he came, without a word to anyone, and with that same exaggerated hip sway, heading to where a vintage car waits, parked beside a distant curb. Regardless of the curiosity eating up their insides, not a soul dares follow him to inquire after his identity. Whoever he is, there's an air of danger around him, one that demands they keep their distance.

And they do.

Speculating is more fun anyhow.

With any luck, he came to the service and signed the guest book. Once they have his name, the sleuthing can begin.

It seems that they may not have known sweet, conservative Beatrice Davies as well as they previously thought. Could their eighty-nine-year-old relation possibly have taken a younger lover later in life? If so, is there any evidence of him? They'll have to comb through everything – pictures and letters and journals back at Beatrice's house to try and find it.

If nothing else, discussing it will be a great diversion from their sadness for the remainder of the afternoon.

* * *

Crowley opens the driver's door to his car and slides into the front seat. He takes off his hat and, with a flick of his wrist, miracles it away. Sitting in the seat behind him, a little old lady in a smart black frock beams, gazing at him the same way Icarus once looked at the sun.

"That was _beautiful_," she gushes.

"I'm glad you liked it. You deserve it." He finds her reflection in his rearview and gives her a wink.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Crowley. You are a lovely demon, helping out an old lady like this."

"My pleasure, Beatrice."

"Yes. And your eulogy was quite the touch." Sitting in the passenger seat, Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but he can't help the soft smile lifting his lips. Crowley acting the part of the mysterious mourner, possibly even a secret paramour, may have been a bit tacky for Aziraphale's tastes, but no harm done. If anything, the scandal of it all will keep Beatrice's name on her family's lips for years to come.

Besides, it made her so happy to finally have this one moment in the spotlight.

"And you, Mr. Fell …" Beatrice puts a hand on the angel's shoulder, gives it a delicate squeeze "… thank you for letting me hide out in your bookshop. It really is a wonderful place."

"You're very welcome." He places his hand over hers and pats it fondly. Of all the ghosts that wander in and out of his bookshop, Beatrice has been one of the nicest, the most polite. He doesn't get too many requests from his spiritual visitors. They're mostly content to haunt passively, maintain some small connection to the living. But Beatrice's request to see her family gathered together one last time, he couldn't resist.

Unbeknownst to him, she went to Crowley with the rest.

And he'd been more than happy to oblige.

"But we need to get along now, my dears. Let's get Miss Beatrice back upstairs where she belongs."


End file.
